There’s a new post today on 100 Word Story Anthology, and we’ve got more great writers telling stories in exactly 100 words on deck. Visit the site, and you can also submit to rousseaunyc@gmail.com. Since we’re still living in a snow globe in the Northeast, I decided to get an indoor workout by combining haiku and 100 word story forms. Here’s what happened.

Three days after snow
the weighted hemlock branches
–long to be shaken.

Now February,
winter circling back again
–deepening, full moon,

bright between the storms,
accumulation wakes us
–to find new footprints.

Unearthing shovels,
assess what’s not covered tight
–call for oil and wood.

Climbing a rooftop
punk rock neighbor rakes snow puffs
–off like a farmer.

We left the city
called by larkspur, lavender
–rooms to write and paint.

But this landscape sends
us out, discerning layers
–covered, valleys, depths.

Resplendently cold,
beauty breathes a still silence
–this waiting for spring.

~me

The poem is my post for today on the haiku-a-day group site. The photo (such a fairy tale dreamscape) is Central Park on Monday night. This week of NYC winter storms continues.

Some hot raft boots
perfect New York fashion week
–haute necessity.

Somehow, I missed that NYC would be slogging through another winter storm today. Waking up to the scene described in my haiku below, I mumbled, “What about Wednesday?” Another one’s predicted. Here’s the West Side at 75th Street at lunch time today. I lived very near here for years in a little apartment that I loved so much.

Soft city snow-mist
morning clings to shades of night
–street lamps like fireflies.

Last weekend, I tweeted and posted on FB that 100 Word Story Anthology is accepting submissions. Within hours, stories arrived in our inbox, and we’re having a great time reading this fiction, nonfiction, poetry and dialogue. If you’re a writer and have the desire to write short (exactly 100 words), submit to rousseaunyc@gmail.com. Include a short bio and a link to your website if you have one. The entire nation may be under a deep freeze, but we’re writing. And that’s always a good thing.

Click here for stories.

The haiku-a-day club is going strong, too. It’s a private group, but here’s one of mine from this week.

Words for this weather
polar cyclone, polar low
–circumpolar whirl.

Another polar vortex has descended upon NYC, this time, with snow. Suddenly, functional boots—and coats that can withstand Canadian temperatures—become a necessity. New Yorkers huddle at bus stops, step carefully over curb-side snow banks and try not to slip on icy ruts in the street. Here are a few of my Instagrams from this week. Can you feel the cold?

10th Ave.

Lincoln Center

Central Park

We’re still at it. About 95 people—journalists, fiction writers, poets—clicking onto the Haiku Room group on Facebook and writing poems. It seems that everyone isn’t posting daily, or maybe I just can’t keep up with it all, but some people are definitely trying to write one every single day. So far the three lines of 5-7-5 are coming easily for me. However, I don’t underestimate the power of this experiment to affect my writing. Today I’m starting a new short story, so we’ll see if these city-country ones sneak in there.

In the Monday rush
open your mind, think orchids
–even cities bloom.

Remnants of night frost
breaking under our boot-steps
–far from city steam.

The weather has been challenging in the country—sub-freezing temperatures, snow, heavy rains and wind. When I’m in the Catskills, sitting inside, I deal with winter the way many poets do. I write about it.

Through sunlight, snow fell
as the salt truck shifted gears
–lowering its plow.

Long mirrors of ice
a meadow’s slick treachery
–no one is sledding.

Monochromatic
mountain, sky, stream and meadow
–just shapes beneath fog.

A couple of winters ago, I attended a party hosted by writer friends upstate and was introduced to poets who write haiku as spiritual practice. The form was something I’d enjoyed for years—and after chatting for a few minutes—a couple of poets invited me to join their kai, a club which meets once a month and also has a Facebook group. I was thrilled to suddenly have a community of haiku poets, and I started posting. The Hudson Valley Haiku Kai takes the form seriously, staying true to syllable count and nature as subject matter. It’s a wonderful group.

A few weeks ago, a friend asked me to join another group on Facebook made up of members committed to writing a haiku a day for all of 2014. Without thinking much about it, I said sure. Haiku is a steady aspect of my writing practice, (partly because of the Hudson Valley Kai), and while I’ve never thought about how many I write, or felt pressure to crank them out, I didn’t think writing one every day would feel taxing. And if I didn’t post every single day, who would care? Just have fun, chill out, try it. So I got started, and I’ve done eleven, no problem—but something’s happening.

Here’s the thing. The new group is looser, not with syllable count, but with content. The poet is more present in the poems. Some aren’t even about the natural world, some are focused on the interior world of the poet. And while, so far at least, I’m staying true to nature as subject with my posts, I’m writing faster, considering the finished poem less before sending it out. So I guess I’m not editing as much. This is making me both excited and a little uncomfortable. It’s shaking things up in my haiku world.

I’ll admit I hope this translates, in a helpful way, into both my fiction and nonfiction. I’m enjoying reading poems composed by people I’m just meeting; it feels like going off somewhere and making lots of smart, funny, insightful new friends. And that’s always a good thing. I’ll keep you posted.

Happy New Year! We’re starting off a new year in New York with snow. Here are three haiku inspired by the beauty of a cold country winter—and the city’s set for a blizzard today. Stay warm, everyone, and write, paint, dance, photograph this new beginning.

Soft midnight snowfall
imperceptibly woven
–except in porch light.

Through the open door
whispers of winter snowfall
–swirl across the floor.

On the mountain path
sticks, stones and stair-step creek beds
–resplendent, frozen.

NYC Night: New Work is showing at the Woodstock Artists Association Museum through Jan. 2, and the series is now online at sharonrousseau.com. Hope you’ll check it out!